To Curse the Night
by ChronosDeDrakan
Summary: The Kindred of Glasgow all have their own aims and plans, furthering their pursuit of power and blood. However, the emergence of ancient evil will force them to bond together. Alliances will be made and broken, clans born and destroyed.
1. Prince and Nomad Pawns and Players

To Curse the Night:  
A Tale of the Glasgow Kindred  
  
"My kitten walks on velvet feet  
  
And makes no sound at all  
  
And in the doorway nightly sits  
  
To watch the darkness fall  
  
I think he loves the lady, Night  
  
And feels akin to her  
  
Whose footsteps are as still as his  
  
Whose touch as soft as fur" Night, Lois Weakly McKay  
  
The darkness was falling, he thought, standing at the entrance to the Underground, a shimmering convergence of metal and glass, descending into the depths. He drew his hood close, the night enveloping him; embracing him....He was its child, an immortal, a beautiful progeny of shade, the spawn of Caine. He smirked, remembering what he was gave him a certain satisfaction, second only to that of the hunt, to the thrill of the kill, the heart beating against the drain on blood, battling with primordial will to survive, yet so fleeting, so futile.  
  
He licked his lips, the very thought of it making his hunger grow, making the beast within squirm and coil afresh around his heart. He breathed out a non-existent breath, waiting. His contact would be here soon, a bigwig of the Sabbat, the 'Sword of Caine', genocidal madmen on their own little crusade. Still, they could grant power, and power was what he wanted in this city, power over the Camarilla, power over the Primogen and the Prince, his Prince, Chronos. Yes, Chronos De Drakan, mysterious child of clan Tremere had emerged from the shadows, winning over the Cainites here and turning them to his will. An odd one he was, no more a Tremere than he himself were a Nosferatu. Still, it was only natural for him to suspect, Tremere and Brujah had never gotten along, their tempers and talismans clashing over the years in blood feuds and bigotry.  
  
He shuddered against the cold, glancing about himself again. The street was empty, the lights shimmering in their amber and bluish light, tinting the streets with their piercing gaze, like primordial torches of ages he had never known. And then- -He heard something. "What was that?" He spoke aloud, tension flooding his veins, his eyes scanning the night, half expecting some horror to lunge forth and claim him, some Tzimisce beast come to tear his flesh apart, and sculpt it into something more twisted still. Again, noise, shattering the silence of the midnight city, deathly quiet, unusually quiet. "What are you, Goddamnit?" He screamed into the night, whirling around, his eyes seeking the stranger he knew was drawing nearer. "Alexander" It crooned from the darkness, smirking wryly as it watched him. "What are you? Who are you?" He felt his throat tightening, felt a steady pressure and heat burning in his chest, Gehenna was fast approaching, the Final Death looming... "I am your Prince, wretch" Chronos spoke, angered and yet eloquent in his position, delighting as he inflicted pain on this traitor, this recreant who would so brazenly betray him to his enemies. "And you must die, lest your treachery spread and infect more kindred. Fall, and sin no more" He pushed forward, forcing the dread energy of Thaumaturgy through the traitors bones, through his bastard blood, consuming him utterly in the inferno of his rage. And in the half light, his eyes shimmered with hellfire. He chuckled. "Fools are those who oppose me, know thee dark powers that here in Glasgow we shall not take lightly threats to our royal authority" He turned, addressing the empty shadow near him. "How goes the preparations?" "They are almost complete, my Lord" It bowed, coming into corporeal form, a twisted Nosferatu, bent kneed and watching, watching with cold eager eyes, like looking into the eyes of a shark... "Excellent, then soon there shall not be a movement of the Sabbat within this city. They shall die before they cross the threshold of my dominion. Make sure your children keep watch through the night, lest it be your head that rests upon our royal ramparts." Chronos chuckled, turning from the Nosferatu, who bowed and curtsied, fleeing into the shadows... He was alone. "Ah, that this city should be so full of fools!" He gestured madly, his rage pouring forth. "I am cursed to be surrounded by such fools; Camarilla, Sabbat! It makes no difference, they are all cattle, as foolhardy and pathetic as the Kine, before my masters." His eyes blazed with a sinister malignance, balefire alive in his eyes, the very gates of hell reflected in those cold, dead spheres. "I deserve more than to be mere Prince, to have infinite power over a gathering of fools. I deserve better than this world!" He raised his hands, clutching madly at air, his fangs sharp against his lips, his eyes half shut in the delirium of his ranting. "I need power, true power...Ancient power in the blood of most hallowed fathers, those ones corrupted so much that they know not what humanity is, that they exist only as a perversion of decency and reason" He sighed, leaning back against the cool glass of the shelter, watching the stars, the pinpricks of fire licking at the skin of night. "All I need is that power, and I, Chronos De Drakan, child of the Clan Baali, greatest infiltrator ever to set foot on Scottish soil, shall become more than mere prince of Glasgow, I shall become lord and master of this entire damned island..." With that, he faded into the night, leaving nothing to that street but the chill glimmer of his presence, the faint recognition that he had been there...  
  
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.  
George Moore  
  
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.  
Dag Hammarskjold  
  
Far across the city, the wanderer sat, watching the passing traffic, a snails crawl at that time of night, a slow murmur of chaos, in a place of sanctity and order. He sat atop the building, gazing out at this city, a proud city, built by men of vision. He had not seen its like for many years. He was Gunther Dorn, a warrior of clan Gangrel, a wanderer by nature, seeking balance with his inner demons, wrestling with the beast...He sighed, it had been an age since he had tasted the temptations of blood, centuries since he had drank from mortal vessels. He had slumbered, and he had wandered. And now he was home, Scotland, where he had spent his early years, his mortal years, his first few immortal years, tinged with sadness and the dark decades of being hunted. He looked out into the night, the eternal mother that had cradled him from his birth into death and darkness, to these nights of immortal longing, and smiled. It was time to make his mark on the world once again. He rose, still and silent, like a statue silhouetted against the night, the moonlight surrounding him in an eerie glow, as he leapt down from his pedestal, leaving the pinnacle to descend into the labyrinth depths of the city. It was time....Oh yes, it was time... 


	2. Rebellious Body, Rebellious Mind

"Let them hate, so long as they fear. "  
Lucius Accius (170 BC - 86 BC), Fragment  
  
Catalyst  
  
The city streets were vibrant with life. It was late, late enough for the murky dark to have fallen, a howling umbra beneath abyssal clouds, wailing with its windy voice, but not enough to discourage the flow of humanity. Goths and punks, posers and rebels, miscreants and rabble moved in their flocks, while the businessman moves with lupine arrogance through them, lone, arrogant and proud. Through the microcosm of man, moved a smaller minority, yet a superior breed...Through the hustle and bustle moved the Kindred, and in particular...Elena. She moved among them as though she were a child of the modern nights, graceful and beautiful, cold and yet alluring. She smirked and danced through the crowds, attracting longing glances and scornful stares; but she didn't care. They loved her, they hated her, they wanted her and wanted to be her; let them have their delusions. She slunk off to the side, into an alleyway, a favoured prey coming after her, smiling as she smiled, overpowered by puppy dog eyes and a coy petted lip, seducing her prey into false security with overwhelming innocence. Her mouth closes over the mans neck, running her tongue gently over the taut flesh, as her fangs slid through the membrane... Her prey tensed, and then relaxed, and in minutes he was slumped on the ground, asleep, the skin not even broken... She paused, her chest tightening, her hair falling about her shoulders in a blue black flurry, her eyes open wide as she felt something, her blood was burning; she felt sick, though her mortal stomach ceased to work...Alex...Her blood was injured, her blood was sick, and she knew the reason... Her childe was dead.  
  
"It's no accident that the church and the graveyard stand side by side. The city of the dead sleeps encircled by the city of the living."  
Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, Lost and  
Found, 1992  
  
Requiem  
  
The Necropolis, Glasgow's city of the dead, slept forever. It was a land enveloped in night, nourished by the tears of loss and heartache, nurtured by the floral gifts that wreathed its silent houses. Many came to visit, and few ever truly left. Among the silent sentinels, a girl skipped along, stopping to place flowers at each grave, and talking as she went, as though conversing with the silent occupants of the city. She paused, tilting her head as she put down a flower, asking how they were, asking what they were doing; had the fairies come to visit yet? Or some of the other night dwellers. None of the others ever visited. It was funny, she paused; giggling to thinking of it; that the once dead never visited the ever dead. Her black ringlets fell about her face, and she quickly moved them away. She had so much to do, so much to think about, it was hard sometimes. She paused, thinking clearly as she sometimes did, in between the pranks-fun- mischief-mayhem-Malkavian-machinations, swaying lightly as she hummed, dancing from one stone to the other. People who saw her though she was some waif, some stray, lost and alone, weeping with her pout and her big brown eyes. Such easy prey. She curtseyed to her latest companion, a large looming cross, and giggled slightly. Her sire had told her to give the dead the truth, but she preferred respect, this way she could have friends.  
  
"Aren't you out a little late?" She turned, grinning impishly as she saw him.  
  
"And what brings you here, you only care about the living and the once dead?" "We need to talk business" Chronos chuckled slightly, "You, me, and however many are in that little head of yours" Amber smiled lightly at him. "We watch, we listen, and now we'll hear your words, Warlock" She grinned with pearly whites. "And how is the rabble princess that you love oh so much?" Her words dripped with inky black sarcasm. "I think she's got a void she can't quite fill at the moment..." 


End file.
